


good thing you didn't eat an apple for breakfast

by HappinessIsBlau



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: A little angst for good measure, Alien Biology, But just a little, I'm not as sorry as I should be, Other, Psychic Intrusion, Tentacle Dick, Vaginal Sex, excessive cum, like... dare I say... buckets of cum, maybe a little bit of dub-con but that was unintentional I'm sorry, or tentacle dick(s) haha get it because two hearts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-23 15:57:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19704649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HappinessIsBlau/pseuds/HappinessIsBlau
Summary: Okay, realistically, you know that he is making eye contact to be polite and include you, and you know that you could pipe up and be helpful, but it is becoming hard to concentrate. No one around you seems to be phased at all. You vaguely find yourself tapping the tip of his shoe with yours.





	good thing you didn't eat an apple for breakfast

**Author's Note:**

> So I've got really no explanation. I'm literally out here just living my own life and this happens to punch me in the face. I was watching Good Omens and then was like Oh Wow I Haven't Seen Anything With David Tennant Since Before College and then started rewatching Doctor Who (2005) and holy fuck so well yeah. 
> 
> Oh, and sorry for any tense issues/pronoun issues, I originally wrote this with an OC and in past tense, so some of that may have slipped through, even though I tried to read through it a few times.
> 
> **Reader is afab, mention of lipstick and skirt-wearing, and The Doctor has lightly researched, vaguely alien biology and he/him pronouns
> 
> EDIT 7/16/19 - fixed a few typos and read-ability errors.  
> EDIT 7/28/19 - fixed more typos! so sorry

Such a strange man, you think to yourself, self-consciously eyeballing the lanky man in the suit. He's dressed a bit formally except for his shoes: red Chuck Taylor All-Stars. It's a nice touch. 

Something's different about him. Something in the air around him tastes different, like the air after a storm.

This blue-suited, dark haired man smiles with his eyes when he talks everso enthusiastically about physics or something, you know you really should be paying attention but you feel a weird buzz in your brain. It's a pressure at the base of your skull and a ringing in your ears something fierce, like a migraine but not painful, not even really unwelcome, just... different. Off. All you can think of is curling your tongue around his fingertips and sucking whipped cream off of them. And it doesn't help that he keeps, well, looking at you.

Okay, realistically, you know that he is making eye contact to be polite and include you, and you know that you could pipe up and be helpful, but it is becoming hard to concentrate. No one around you seems to be phased at all. You vaguely find yourself tapping the tip of his shoe with yours.

He moves his foot politely.

You do it again.

He moves away.

You follow, trailing your foot up his calf this time.

He exhales through his nose and avoids eye contact for a solid minute and a half until he looks back at you, catches your eyes, and looks away quickly, and the next time he looks in your direction he looks over your shoulder. 

Satisfied that he had a plan of action that you had only half-heard, he gets up from the planning table and you find yourself following him and trying your best to match his stride. He regards you with polite, distant nervousness. Something about him, and not just his accent, reads foreign.

\--

It isn't your fault, getting trapped in a closet with this blue suited, red All-Stars wearing, ozone-and-something smelling, eyes like the stars looking, six hours past-clean-shaven man.

It was really that the building you were in experienced a horrible earthquake suddenly and he instinctively grabbed your hand, opened the nearest door, and pulled you inside after him. You caught the door handle and slammed it shut behind you. Good thing, too, because the ceiling collapsed where the both of you had been standing ten seconds before. 

Unfortunate that the debris had effectively trapped you inside the closet. Damn whoever made the door open outwards. 

“Fuck,” he says. 

“Yes,” you agree.

He pulls something out of his pocket -- a small little magic-wand looking thing that glows blue at the top when he hits a button on the middle. His eyebrows furrow. Something tells you that he’s a bit claustrophobic, or maybe it’s just that you were kinda sorta flirting with him earlier and you're not sure that it was entirely welcome.

It’s a broom closet. There’s not room for two people, really. The plank of a shelf containing cleaning supplies is pressing uncomfortably into your back as you adjust to let him try to open the door. 

He pushes at it and hears the thunk of the debris that is trapping you both inside. You're not sure what his magic wand is supposed to be doing to help this situation.

“We’re stuck,” he says, and you just hum in agreement and move closer to him to alleviate the pain in your back from this damned shelf which makes you press up against him just the slightest amount. He half-heartedly smacks his forehead against the door and lets out a god-honest whine.

At first you think it’s in response to your touching him so you back off but then you realize that it’s because he’s pouting.

“I wanna be out there! That’s where the action is! I’m no bloody good stuck in a closet when there’s something otherworldly going on outside,” he complains.

You figure that someone’ll let you out eventually. That collapse was big enough that someone had to notice it. Pressed up against him like this, you can tell that his body temperature is much, much cooler than the average human. Corpse-like, really. It's concerning and the high-pitched sound in your ears rings a bit louder. You inadvertently lean into him, just a little, just enough to feel two heartbeats that are picking up speed. 

“Two hearts,” you say, pushing your hands against his back to feel more intensely, despite not asking first. It's a little hard to use the politeness of personal space when there's not room.

“Yeah,” he replies nonchalantly, as if it's obvious, and you feel the heat of embarrassment pool into your face, soothed against the coolness of him through at least two layers of clothes. You're not afraid, somehow, of the fact that he apparently has two hearts. Birth defect, maybe? Well, there's always - you always wanted to believe in aliens.

“Did it just get colder?” he asks suddenly, and you didn’t notice that your eyes were closed until you open them and you can see your breath. The man is pressing both palms against the door, and then slamming against it with his left shoulder. When it doesn’t give, he winces and then turns to face you with his back against the door.

His breath smells like mint tea and his hair smells like the ocean and the ozone smell is fading quietly into the background. The proximity allows you to feel his twin heartbeats, or maybe it's just that the inside of your head is still feeling full of static electricity. 

“We're stuck here,” you hear yourself say nervously, “and help isn't coming for a while,” since there were two floors above you to be unburied first, "and it's getting colder." 

You feel the physical manifestations of his understanding because the pitch of the noise in your brain changes. So it's him causing this. Well, you were always told that you had a lot of empathy, but this is a bit ridiculous. You reach down to hold his hand.

His temperature raises a little. You can tell because of how the color rises to his cheeks.

“I’m not human,” he squeaks, and you pause.

That was obvious. He was corpse-cold and had two heartbeats and had a magic wand in his coat pocket. 

“I kinda got that," you say, reciting your discoveries, “you are freezing cold and have two heart beats and a magic wand in your coat pocket.”

He blinks and glances down at the thing that is still in his hand.

“‘S a screwdriver,” he mumbles, and holds it up so you can see it. It doesn’t look like any screwdriver you’d seen before, but you'll just take his word for it.

“A screwdriver, then,” you say, and he gingerly puts it back in his coat pocket, which means drawing his hand between you. 

You step back slightly so you're not quite as squished and find yourself pressed against the shelf behind you again. You glare in annoyance at it, making a mental note of all the bottles of cleaning supplies that are packed together as tightly as possible to maximize the shelf-space.

“The smallest room in the whole building and we're stuck inside," he says with a huff.

"I'm not claustrophobic," you say, taking one of his hands and squeezing it. He glances down at his hand in yours and you take the opportunity to close the distance between you, kissing his jaw and leaving the print of your lipstick bright red against his skin.

You feel him relax a little, leaning into it. You kiss his jaw again, and again, progressively getting closer to his neck, and then over what would have been a pulsepoint in a human. You kiss back to his ear and then bite down ever so gently on his earlobe and he makes a noise of gaspy approval.

For a creature so captivating, he is so easily stimulated. Maybe it is your warm, human physiology? Maybe it is the lack of oxygen in the room?

Does he need oxygen to breathe? Ah, well. If he isn’t concerned with it, you won't be, either.

You blindly undo his tie with quick, knowing fingers, and unbutton his shirt with practiced ease. He puts his hands against your hips hesitantly, gently, as if he would pull them back at any moment, at the suggestion of a hint of your discomfort.

Some longing part of your heart feels distantly sated by his politeness as you bite down and suck gently at his collarbone in the hopes of leaving a hickey. You wanna know if he bruises the same color as a human does.

He squirms against you and you move to pull away, thinking that he wants to stop, but it seems that he's finally found some gumption and lets his hands slide up your back and into your hair, fussing the styling out of it. You don't mind.

You hike up your skirt and shove your leg between his thighs, eliciting a gasp from him. You can feel something between his legs against your thigh, and the idea that he's _not human_ is so intensely thrilling that it's making you dizzy. 

Despite the cold, you find yourself getting too hot. You pull away from him slightly and peel off your blouse, tossing it on the floor carelessly. Your skirt is already hiked up around your middle because of the length, and it bunched uncomfortably, but alas. 

Despite the low light level, you can tell that his pupils are blown wide, like a cat’s in the dark. He's panting a little, and the line of bruises you left are starting to darken against his skin. He's entirely too clothed.

You finish unbuttoning his shirt and pull it down past his arms. He stops leaning against the door to allow you to pull it off of him. Seems human enough. And you make quick work of his belt, feeling just the smallest bit sorry to pull your knee from the crotch of his pants to slide them down his hips.

Before you can, though, he catches your wrist.

“I’m not human,” he warns, sounding breathless, desperate for you to understand. He's wound up like an elastic band ready to snap. Like a telephone cord too tight around a finger. The repercussions of this suggestion send blood straight between your legs and you quite nearly topple over but there's no room and he's got a good enough hold on your wrist that it steadies you, somehow. 

“That's cool,” you answer stupidly, nervously, _earnestly_ and half-hoarse from your previous effort of giving him hickeys, and he hesitates for a beat and withdraws his fingers from your wrist. He watches you with intense, rapt attention and you take in a sharp breath.

Definitely not human.

He seems human enough at first. Belly button, hair below his navel, until… well, he unfolds, more or less. Like a budding flower but instead of petals it’s the unrolling of twin tentacles. Blue, maybe. Wet.

You offer fingers, first. Silky smooth. The wetness feels like your own, except a different temperature. 

You glance up to see that he’s got his eyes closed, his hands have withdrawn from you to ball into fists. His fingers have to hurt, being all clenched up like that.

You take your free hand to cup his cheek. He opens his eyes to gaze down at you with something intimate but distant. 

It’s unnerving, so you kiss him on the mouth, real and proper. So sad, so lonely, so desperate. Missing someone, or maybe many someones, trying not to assume. You're pleasantly surprised to taste mint tea on the roof of his mouth. His molars have fillings, you note. Aliens have dentists?

You withdraw your fingers hesitantly and move to slide your underwear down. Usually you'd take a little more initiative, but, well. 

You break off the kiss and look at him hopefully. He’s come back to himself, a little. You glance down between you hoping he’ll take the hint of _I have no idea how compatible our anatomy is but I really hope you know because, um, tentacles. Please._

Maybe he’s seen your look before on someone else but he nods and presses you against the goddamn shelf behind you. You half-sit on one of the slats and he closes the gap between his pelvis and yours, quite literally squishing you together. 

He writhes, well his … tentacles writhe. They press into your labia and you bite your lip. He’s holding you up a bit, surprisingly steady, and you're slightly surprised by the amount of drag of your skin meeting as he moves to get inside you, and how shocking his low temperature is. You had imagined slick, sliding wetness meeting wetness, but there’s just a sweet, sad twinge of resistance and too-much-too-fast and you grab his shoulder and squeeze and your nails must bite into his skin a bit roughly because he hisses in a breath between his teeth.

“Sorry,” you offer, and he doesn’t reply but rolls his hips in a way that is so, so heavenly. He fills you up in a way that makes you grateful, makes your toes curl in your boots. A tip against your cervix, something pulsing against your clit, and something thick strumming your g-spot and you are really just a desperate mess. A part of your mind figures you've either died, or maybe he was some sort of angel, and if you was alive then you’d better appreciate this because it’d never be this good again.

His eyes flutter closed again in distant concentration. You've managed to hold yourself up mostly, enough to wrap your arms around his neck and brace your thighs on his skinny hips as he fucks you with increasing urgency. The cleaning supplies behind you are being shaken. In fact, the entire shelving structure is not quite agreeable to the demands being put upon it, creaking threateningly.

The blood in your ears barely allows you to register that. All you can really focus on is how nice he feels against you, still nice and cool even with sweat-slick, clammy skin, and your orgasm is fast approaching, curling tight in your belly like dread, and the way that he's now kissing your jaw with such careful and deliberate intention, like he'd hurt you if he kissed too hard. 

You wouldn't mind if he hurt you a little, made you ache a little bit, broke your heart, or anything like that. Anything to get more of him, to get closer, to let you in his orbit. The weird feeling inside your head had you attracted to him like a magnet. If he was the sun then you were all the planets that gravity wouldn't let get just close enough to be pulled in, but oh, you'd try.

You came then, around and against him, suddenly coming back to yourself and so, so, so overwhelmed by whatever psychic intrusion this was, only really aware enough to register him half-on top of you, jerking quickly and coming inside of you, much, much, much more than you expected. 

He pulls out suddenly, finishing half-on your thighs and half on the floor and so him being gone from you, you felt fluid pour down your thighs. This left you feeling violatingly empty, and that's when you register a wetness on your face. You realize it's tears but you're not sure if they're yours or not. He's slumped against your shoulder despite your difference in height and you open your mouth to ask if he's okay but that's when the wall behind you finally gives out with the sound of tearing metal.

You hit the ground painfully and he lands ontop of you, knocking the air out of your lungs as you both spill into the nice, wide open room behind the closet you were formerly trapped in.

You lay there for a minute, finally noticing that the static in your head is calm now, like ocean waves. Opening your eyes, you find that you're really quite sticky.

There was something ever-so heartwarming (the warmth of your own heart surprises you, actually, and warmed up the rest of you, too) and positively, pornographically delightful about you both being absolutely covered in what looked like viscus blue paint. He uncurls from you, finding himself, and despite his undress he scrambles to his feet and helps you up while wiping tears from his face. His eyes are reddened. 

When you're finally to your feet, you catch that he's staring at you, seeming to finally come to realize what you'd both just done, and then makes a noise like his brain was slightly short-circuiting.

“I’m - I’m - oh, I’m sorry, I’m really - that had to -” he whines, cutting off his own thought, pushing the heels of his hands against his eyes and you take that opportunity to climb back into the now ruined closet to retrieve your discarded clothes. 

You pull your ruined underwear back up with all the pride you have left, push your skirt back down, and pull your blue-splattered shirt on over your head. You hold his clothes uncertainly.

“Psychic links - that’s intense, I’m sorry - I didn’t realize -” he is still short-circuiting. 

“Come along, then,” you say, despite yourself, picking your words with intention and eliciting an indignant squeak out of him as he winces at pulling up his now-even-bluer pants, “I thought you said there was an adventure to be had.” 

You were instantly glad that you could truthfully say that you were stuck in the janitor’s closet. Maybe then, upon that explanation, no one would question how blue you'd both become. You take care to smear his come all about your legs, not just your inner thighs, and makes sure he watches. He groans miserably in response, but you hear an unmistakable delighted rumble in his throat.

He can purr.


End file.
